


On the Art of Baking

by Culumacilinte



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Food Kink, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Well, what is it to be? Kitchen counter or shower?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Art of Baking

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt, "Kitchen counter or shower?” Six/Ainley

'Well, what is it to be? Kitchen counter or shower?' 

The Master detached himself from the Doctor’s neck for long enough to say, ‘I beg your pardon?’ and immediately returned to his task. The Doctor fought valiantly for a steady voice as an unbearably delicate tongue traced its way around the shell of his ear.

'Well, if you will assault me in the middle of my baking.'

'You're babbling, Doctor. What the devil has your baking to do with anything? When, for that matter, did you take up baking?'

'From a very good friend of mine,' the Doctor snipped, 'of whom we will speak no further if you have any desire to have sex.'

Even the Master occasionally knew when it was best to fall back, and he lifted his hands in wry surrender.

‘ _I_  have been baking. You may also notice that I am liberally covered with the fruits of my culinary endeavours.’

'So I can see,' the Master murmured. Sliding a hand around the Doctor's back to where his own hands were braced on the flour-strewed countertop, he delicately seized one of his wrists and drew it out as if presenting evidence. The Doctor's hand was smeared with chocolate and icing sugar; there was a dried line of yellow across the outside of his wrist that was plainly egg yolk.

The Master took all this in as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, and then, very deliberately, lifted it to his mouth and sealed his lips around the Doctor’s index finger.

This version of the Master had always rather reminded the Doctor of a large cat; his wild and often contradictory whims were, for a start, distinctly feline. Perhaps a panther, with all that black velvet and his propensity for slinking around in the shadows and looking at the Doctor as though he wanted nothing more than to devour him. In this incarnation, though the Doctor would never admit it, he was a bit charmed by the likeness.

Now, as the Master gave his finger a long, languorous suck, tongue pressing against the underside and eyes cast up at him in a hooded, hungry gaze, the comparison seemed more apposite than ever. The Doctor swallowed hard. The Master’s mouth was distractingly warm, and the suction was— well, that was simply distracting. The Master chuckled around the digit in his mouth, and moved on to the Doctor’s thumb. Arousal throbbed in his belly. Well then. If he was determined to rile the Doctor up, he saw no option but to continue on as calmly as he could.

'Now,' he started a little weakly, 'it seems to me that we are left with two options, presuming you'd like to do something a little more involved than frottage and… sucking on my fingers like a tart; either say sod it, give ourselves over wholly to the mess and shag right here on the counter, or— or relocate to the shower.'

With the hand not currently in the Master’s possession, he consideringly flicked open two of the Master’s many buttons. ‘Ultimately, I suppose it boils down to whether your evident lack of self-control in this incarnation trumps your long-held dislike of getting unnecessarily messy.’

He paused for effect. ‘So?  _Master._ What is it to be?’

The Master regarded him with tolerant amusement— only tolerant, surely, because of the forthcoming sex— and let the hand fall. ‘Are you quite done?’

'Mm? Oh, I think so.'

‘ _Then_ ,’ the Master growled, and yanked the Doctor into a hard kiss, one hand stealing down to grope him thoroughly through his trousers. The Doctor made a shocked noise, which very quickly melted into a moan when the Master replicated his earlier move with the Doctor’s fingers with his tongue, sucking on it in blatant, filthy suggestion. By the time he pulled back, looking rather viciously pleased with himself, the Doctor’s colour was high, and he had to work to keep his legs from wobbling.

‘ _Master_ ,’ he breathed, in some amount of admiration.

The Master smirked. ‘What was it you were saying about self-control, my dear?’ He took a very deliberate step back, eyeing the Doctor’s erection and licking his lips— licking his lips!— before making a sweeping, theatrical gesture towards the door with one hand. ‘The shower, was it? Do lead the way.’

The Doctor— who was not gaping in any way shape or form— shut his mouth with a snap, and gathered his dignity about him like the coat he wasn’t actually wearing at the moment. ‘Very well. Come along, then.’

The shower, it transpired, had delightfully grippy floors, and  _excellent_  acoustics, and by the time they finished, not a speck of flour or chocolate to be seen on either of them, both were quite convinced that they had emerged the victor.


End file.
